


Original Programming

by zetsubonna



Series: On Va Voir [19]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bottom Steve, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Serum Malfunction, Somnophilia, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, implied Sam Wilson/Steve Rogers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:53:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1838422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubonna/pseuds/zetsubonna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier has gone off the grid. Sometimes he's in his own head, sometimes he isn't. He can't remember the mission. He can't remember what he was thinking at the museum. Everything comes in and out.</p><p>The Man on the Bridge wasn't <i>right</i>. Something about him was <i>wrong</i>.</p><p>He took a break to wreak havoc on his former masters, and when he returned, The Man on the Bridge was the way he was supposed to be:</p><p><i>smaller</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Original Programming

He couldn’t remember how he knew him, when he was the Man on the Bridge. The Man on the Bridge was  _familiar_ , but he wasn’t  _right_. He had gone to the museum and learned, but he was having trouble retaining programs now that he had slipped his handlers and deviated from his current programming, so he couldn’t always remember everything he was supposed to, about himself, about his name, about his mission, about The Man on the Bridge.

He was trying to sleep on the roof of an abandoned building when his eyes suddenly snapped open. The Man on the Bridge, he realized abruptly, used to be, was supposed to be, and now was, somehow, again, The Doll, and The Doll was right. More importantly, The Doll was  _his_.

The Soldier had never(?) had a possession. He was an asset, a possession himself, and a thing can not own other things, but The Doll was  _his,_ he always(?) was his, from the time before always(?), from the time he was not allowed, from  _Before_.

The Doll was sunshine. The Doll was warm. The Doll was safe, and  _love(?)_ , and home(?). The Doll was everything the Red Room took out of The Soldier to make their asset. The Doll was the essence of  _Before_. If he was ever to reassert his _original programming_ , he needed to find The Man on the Bridge, but he could not allow The Man on the Bridge to find him, to see him, to speak to him. He was not ready. He was not properly organized for reprogramming. He would wait, and watch The Man on the Bridge for the right moment.

The Man on the Bridge looked for The Soldier. He did not find him, because The Soldier was just as easily  _behind_  him as  _in front of him_. The Man on the Bridge did not know where to look, and eventually, his handlers called him back, and The Soldier was delayed in pursuit of his quarry while he dealt with  _self-programming: Soldier data destruction_  and avoided being reacquired.

When he finally returned to his secondary mission and found The Doll instead, he was very confused. The Doll was supposed to be The Man on the Bridge. The Man on the Bridge was The Doll, that was how The Man on the Bridge kept himself  _safe_  without  _The Soldier_. If The Doll was no longer The Man on the Bridge, The Soldier could no longer be an asset. His original programming was very clear: The Doll would die without The Soldier. The Doll could not breathe. He could not see. He could scarcely hear. He was always in pain, and he was always in danger. The Doll was The Soldier’s reason, the reason he kept needing to be erased and reprogrammed, his _original program_ , his  _base code_. Without The Doll, there would be no more  _Before_ , not ever again. The Soldier would die, would be a sentient gun with no underlying  _purpose._

The Soldier followed.

There was The Winged Man. He was strong and handsome, and he worried for The Doll, but The Winged Man belonged to The Man on the Bridge, not the  _original programming_. He was a subroutine. There had been another subroutine, The Woman with the Gun, and The Soldier had loved( _servedprotected_ ) her because she had loved( _protectedserved_ ) The Doll before he had become The Man on the Bridge.

The Red Traitor was also a subroutine, and The Soldier was wary of her, even though she protected The Man on the Bridge with The Winged Man.

The Red Traitor and The Winged Man left The Doll alone. The Doll insisted. The Doll had always been, The Soldier remembered,  _stubborn as a goddamn mule(?)._ He had never wanted help, charity, he  _was_  the original program ( _loveserve_ _protect_ ). The Soldier had never been deterred by The Doll’s manifestation of his  _original program_. He obeyed his own program:  _protectloveserve_  The Doll. That had been his mission before any other mission, and that would be his mission, as The Man on the Bridge had reminded him before they fell,  _until the end of the line_.

Sneaking into The Doll’s restoration and reprogramming facility was not a challenge. There had been recording devices before. There had been Not a Nurse. There had been The One-Eyed Man, who was a mission before The Man on the Bridge was a  _mission-mistake,_ a  _conflicting program_. The Doll could not see well: he did not see the partially-open window. The Doll could not hear well: he did not wake when The Soldier moved through the residence while The Doll was recovering his energy.

The Doll was obviously incapable of self-preservation, especially in this state. He required The Soldier to function. It was their  _original operating protocol._ They were a two-part weapon: The Soldier was the gun, but The Doll was meant to be mission-selection, aim and trigger, The Soldier had never been intended to wield  _himself_. Of course not. He had been operating incorrectly for hundreds of missions, tens of years. That would be altered immediately:  _restore original programming_.  _Return to first protocol_.

The Doll’s bed was big enough for The Man on the Bridge. The Soldier was not meant to wear armor in The Doll’s bed. The leather and straps would pinch his thin, soft, perfect skin- he was brittle, fragile, frail, sickly-

 _Not glass_. The Doll had emphasized this to The Soldier, sometimes to the point of rage:  _ain’t glass, not an invalid, won’t break if you touch me_. The Soldier knew The Doll was either lying or just plain wrong, but he knew this because he knew  _himself_ , knew what he, as The Soldier, was capable of, better than The Doll knew him.

The Doll knew the opposite of what The Soldier knew. The Soldier could be precise, could have a gentle touch, and preferred precision, meditative, thoughtful application of himself over brute force.

Experts had looked at The Doll and saw  _invalid, nonfunctioning, broken_. Experts had looked at The Soldier and saw  _brutal, efficient, useful_.  
The Doll always looked at The Soldier and saw  _respect, protection, trust_  and  _support_.  
The Soldier had always looked at The Doll and saw not  _perfection_ , precisely, but  _hope_ ,  _potential, beauty_  and  _purpose._ _  
_

The Soldier remembered these things as he slipped out of his armor, his boots, his gloves. He flexed his metal arm, watched the plates ripple. He needed be careful. He could easily break The Doll’s delicate bones with the arm, with just the fingers, he could bruise him, he could hurt him. He did not want to, that would violate  _original programming_. The Doll’s  _existence_  hurt him. The Soldier would not increase his pain.

He slid beneath the sheet. The Doll did not respond, even though The Soldier was so close. The Soldier’s chest hurt. The Doll was not  _helpless_  when he wasn’t The Man on the Bridge, but he wasn’t  _safe_  when he was like this. He was too unaware, too weak, too open to attack. The Soldier wondered if it was because he was clean. He had washed before The Doll had come home, he must smell like himself. Smell was a very important trigger. If The Doll knew his smell, he might recognize The Soldier’s  _original programming_.

"Baby," The Soldier whispered as he moved closer, stroking The Doll’s hair back from his cheek. "Baby boy." These were activation codes, they would reach through any programming The Doll might have received in The Soldier’s absence. The Doll had an identity code, that might help, also.

"Steve. Stevie." The Doll stirred as The Soldier pressed kisses to his shoulder.

"Bucky?" he slurred, sleepy and bewildered, his bright eyes meeting The Soldier’s in the dark. "Bucky, what are you doing here? How did you-"

"I don’t remember Bucky," The Soldier confessed, pressing his metal hand down on The Doll’s solar plexus, pinning him to the bed so he could not contact his subroutines. "I remember  _you_ , though, Doll.”

 The Doll sucked in a sharp breath, and The Soldier watched him with hooded, calculating eyes. There was a routine here, he could almost taste it.

"To a certain extent," he amended, and it was not  _original programming_  to talk in such a speech pattern, but it was appropriate for a mission report.

He kissed The Doll’s jaw, which tightened, and began plucking at his shirt, tempted to take it off. The Doll, he knew, somehow, would fit into him perfectly, if he coiled around him and pulled him in close. He intended to do that, even when The Doll protested, trying to dislodge The Soldier’s arm.

"Bucky," he whined, "Get off of me. We can’t-"

"I can’t," The Soldier explained, taking The Doll’s hand and bringing it to his mouth, kissing his fingertips. "I need to protect you. You’re not supposed to be my baby doll anymore, you’re supposed to take care of yourself. You can’t, like this. You need me. That’s the  _first mission_ , I remember. I have to keep you safe.”

"You can do that without touching me," The Doll protested, but his face looked different in the dark, and The Soldier knew that meant he was lying again, or just wrong. The Doll was wrong sometimes. They shared, between them, incorrect programming, and The Doll had taken on The Soldier’s share of  _the stupid_  a long time ago.

"I want to touch you," The Soldier stated, and that was true, which had to be  _original programming_ because a weapon did not want anything. “I want this. You’re  _mine_.”

The missing half of The Soldier, The Doll should have known, should have recognized it. It was  _original programming_. The Doll was not supposed to lose the  _original programming_. That would leave both of them with no  _Before_ , with no  _purpose_. _  
_

"Bucky-" The Doll’s eyes were damp, and his bony fingers clung to The Soldier’s muscular arms. "Bucky, please."

"Let me," The Soldier whispered, and kissed The Doll’s hot, trembling mouth. "Let me in. Take me back. If I’m going to do this, I need you to show me what you need me to remember."

His own voice was different. It was accented, warm, reassuring. He had not run this protocol since  _Before_. Would it perform accordingly?

The fight was going out of The Doll, so he hoped(?) so. 

"Bucky," The Doll moaned, and his fragile arms went around The Soldier’s neck.  _Protocol accepted. Access granted._

His mouth was a constant. His hair. The smoothness of his skin, though The Doll’s was thinner and easier to cut, bruise or damage than The Man on the Bridge. The Doll was thin-blooded and cool,  _The Man on the Bridge was a furnace_. The Soldier was not sure why he knew that.

"Mine," The Soldier murmured into The Doll’s skin, breathing in the scent of him, drawing it deep into his lungs, moving against him, pressing him back into The Man on the Bridge’s firm mattress and soft pillows. "Mine, mine, mine."

The Doll responded perfectly, arching up into the touches that were gentle enough, only squirming a little when The Soldier handled him too roughly, just enough for him to know he needed to adjust.

"What do you want?" The Doll asked, touching The Soldier’s rough jaw. He had kept smooth before, if only to keep The Doll from getting burned by his stubble. He would rectify that when it became a priority. "Tell me what to do."

The Soldier delayed by nuzzling his hair, stroking his skin. The Doll was the targeter, wasn’t he? He was supposed to know- oh, but not like this. When they were fitting themselves together, it was The Soldier’s job to lead. The Man on the Bridge usually took point because The Soldier conceded it to him. The Doll was not programmed to be aggressive in this context. He would yield. The Soldier would  _enjoy_ (?) that. The Doll yielded to no one else, not in any other context. He was not a weapon, not like The Soldier, he was self-actualizing. Even The Man on the Bridge was at least partially autonomous, self targeting. He could  _decline missions_. It was a superior level of coding.

What did The Soldier want?

"I want you," he said, searching. There was nothing he remembered, but his body was responding to the nearness of The Doll, getting warm, getting hard, the  _wanting_  was getting more prevalent, gaining priority. “I want all of you that I can have. Give me everything.”

Demanding. Was The Soldier allowed to make demands of The Doll?

The Doll shivered beneath him. “Just-” he began, and then stopped, and The Soldier understood the message.  _Don’t hurt me. Be careful. Go slowly. Maintain awareness of the situation. My function and integrity can be compromised. Your strength and effectiveness threaten my structure. Exercise caution and restraint. Don’t hurt me._  He knew the mission parameters, they were  _original programming_.

"I know," he assured The Doll. "I won’t."

He could count every rib in The Doll’s narrow chest. His spine was misaligned. He saw in grayscale, The Soldier recalled, and even that blurred sometimes. His heartbeat was irregular. His breathing was shallow. He still arched into every stroke of The Soldier’s hands as readily as any weapon he’d ever handled, and was far more satisfying to touch. Like a weapon, too, The Soldier knew precisely how to take him apart and put him back together.

He sucked kisses into The Doll’s neck, nibbled his ears, licked his nipples, squeezed his slim waist and nuzzled his stubborn jaw. Teeth could scrape lightly over his throat, biting his lips made him shudder, kisses to his eyelids made tension melt from him like candlewax trickling down the side of a taper.

"Bucky," The Doll sighed. The Soldier recognized it from The Man on the Bridge. It was  _original programming_. ‘Bucky’ was The Soldier’s activation trigger, when used by The Doll. It had errored, when The Man on the Bridge used it, but it wasn’t an invalid trigger. For The Soldier, The Doll’s trigger was-

"Steve," The Soldier sighed, and The Doll clung to him tighter. "Steve. Doll."

 _Steve Steve Stevie Baby My Baby My Baby Doll Baby Boy Sweetheart Punk Jerk Stupid Idiot- Mine Mine Mine_ , a whole series of protocols and access codes. They were burned into him, he hadn’t known he could retrieve them until they were needed and necessary.

The Doll was hard against his stomach, and he rocked on his knees and hands to encourage that response. The Doll sucked in his breath and The Soldier had to cling to his programming and overrides as hard as he could to avoid panic.

"Breathe," he prompted. "Breathe. In and out. I’m here. I’ve got you."

"I have medicine," The Doll mumbled. That was new. The Soldier relaxed a bit. "Glasses, too. Hearing aids, they’re working on. Shoes."

"Your handlers are trying their best," The Soldier acknowledged. "But they can’t protect you. Look how close I was able to come. And there are worse things in the world than me."

He kissed The Doll’s temple, rocking up so his own hardness could graze The Doll’s thigh. “Let me in. I’ll protect you. That’s why I’m here. You’re mine. Keeping you whole. That was my purpose, my programming, my mission.”

"Bucky." The Doll’s chest bent inward as though someone had punched him and it ached. The sound that he made was almost a sob. The Soldier had to find a way to make him feel better. He kissed him, over and over, stroked his skin, covered him in kisses and sweetness and then, and then, he found the access point.

"Can I be-" he began. "I want to put myself inside you. Can I? Will you help me?"

The Doll stared at him, hands frozen on The Soldier’s shoulders for a long time, and The Soldier stared right back, then relented slightly, grazing his nose along The Doll’s. “I asked for your help because because we’ll need lubrication. I don’t want to hurt you.”

"Top drawer," The Doll mumbled, dropping his eyes. "You’ll have to- open me, first, if you don’t remember."

"With my fingers." The Soldier nodded. "My tongue,  _your_ fingers.”

The Doll was going red again, and cuffed him. “Get it, if you want it.”

He dug through the drawer, found the stuff, slicked his finger and closed his eyes as he experimented, varying pressure all around the place he wanted to be, and The Doll writhed, groaning his trigger over and over.

"Bucky, Bucky, Bucky-" he panted, and The Soldier pressed inward with his fingers, pushed, and it was slick and hot and giving and he wanted, he  _wanted_ -

He was lined up and slowly driving in with his hips, his hands curled around The Doll’s hips, holding him at such an angle that he had tucked the pillows around to cushion him from the pounding that would inevitably come when The Soldier was reaching his objective.

"There?" He was situated, inside him up to the belly, still holding his hips, and The Doll had a fist in his own hair and his other hand pressing hard at the middle of The Soldier’s chest. "There?"

There was something he was looking for, something- The Doll clamped his hand over his own mouth and moaned, low and long and loud: he’d found it.

The Soldier growled with pleasure and The Doll trembled wickedly as he pulled back and pushed in again. And again. Slow and steady, then faster, a little harder. The faster and harder he went, the more The Doll shook, sweated and moved into it, until his legs were around The Soldier’s waist and his hair was soaked with sweat, his whole body wet with it, wet and naked and under The Soldier  _where he belonged_.

"Mine," The Soldier muttered, fixating on the idea to keep himself alert and not hurting The Doll, not noticing where his live fingers were causing him more difficulty than the weaponized metallic ones, digging in and bruising The Doll’s angular hip. "Mine, mine, mine-"

The Doll hissed through his teeth and attempted to push into every thrust. “ _Yes_ ,” he agreed. “Yeah, Bucky,  _yeah_ -“

He shorted out. It wasn’t like being wiped, it didn’t hurt, it was the opposite- it was blissful, it was  _right_ , and he filled The Doll up with his own liquid heat until it dripped down the crack of his behind and smeared across his sheet. He held The Doll up with one hand and stroked him with the other until The Doll painted his stomach, searing and sticky, and then he tumbled over, rolling on his back so The Doll was on top of him and not trapped under his bulk.

"That was  _right_ ,” The Soldier whispered. “That was  _B_ _efore_.”

The Doll buried his face in The Soldier’s throat, speaking against his skin. He hadn’t heard him. He couldn’t hear well. “Will you stay?”

"No," The Soldier said, though he kept his arms around him. "I can’t."

The Doll made an angry sound and clung to him. “You can’t just-“

"I won’t go far," The Soldier cut him off. "I have- connections I need to make. Pieces to put together. But I can’t leave you alone, not while you’re like this. I’ll stay close. I’ll protect you. You’re my mission."

The Doll went very still. “Oh.”

"No," The Soldier moved, pushing his hand under The Doll’s chin, forcing his head up so their eyes could meet. "Not  _that_ mission. The  _first_  mission. The  _original program_. I have to  _keep you safe_.”

His breathing shuddered, and The Soldier squinted. He had said he had medicine for his lungs, but not where.

"The first mission," he repeated, his eyes boring into The Soldier’s, searching for something he couldn’t begin to understand. "Who gave you the first mission, Bucky?"

The Soldier considered. When he spoke, it was hesitant. He wasn’t sure. He wanted to confirm. “I did? I was self-determined?  _Before?_ ”

The Doll drew in another ragged breath, and The Soldier  _did not like that_. The Doll needed to breathe. He had to breathe or he would die.

"Yes," The Doll said, low and firm. "You did. You were. Who gives you your missions now?"

"I do," The Soldier said, letting a faint, grim smile curve his mouth. "I am recalibrating. I’m reprogramming myself for autonomy."

The Doll closed his eyes. The breath he drew was steadier, fuller. The Soldier let some of the tension out of his muscles.

"Okay. That’s- that’s good."

"Don’t allow them to leave you alone if I’m not here," The Soldier ordered him. "The Winged Man. The Red Traitor. They’re not  _me_ , but they’re better than  _being alone_  when you’re what you’re supposed to be.”

The Doll frowned, his brow furrowing. “What I’m supposed to be?”

The Soldier kissed his forehead. “Smaller.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Does Everything but Live](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7064095) by [zetsubonna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubonna/pseuds/zetsubonna)




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